suspect. Obviously, the thing to do is what Mr. Karp has suggested so eloquently-bring him into the compass of the law, but at the same time being conscious of the need for the utmost security. I'm sure the business about who's running the police end can be straightened out by consultations with the NYPD at the highest levels. But above all, let's keep talking to each other! I trust that will suit both Mr. Karp and Detective Manning?"
Karp had to admit it was smoothly done. He met Reedy's eye and saw once again that amused twinkle. What Reedy had said made a certain amount of sense, given the information Karp now possessed. Besides that, he had realized (somewhat to his surprise) that he wanted Reedy to see him as a reasonable man. He nodded and said, "Sure," and so did Manning.
That essentially wound up the meeting, except for some administrative details. Karp left Hrcany to deal with those, and went out to wait for the elevator. As he watched the lights, he felt someone come up behind him. It was Reedy.
"That was quite a performance," Reedy said. "Do you have the whole Constitution by heart, or just the Bill of Rights?"
Karp grinned and replied, "Still working on it. I think you might've been the only guy in that room who got the reference, God help us."
"I'm afraid you're right. Sandy, dear man that he is, is something of a dim bulb in the legal firmament. And he does go on!"
The car arrived and they stepped in. Karp said, "I'm surprised you think so. To hear him talk up there, you're like his closest friend."
Reedy laughed lightly. "Anybody Sandy is with at the moment is his closest friend. He likes to be liked. As for me, I agree with Moliere, 'the friend of all the world is not to my taste.'" He paused. "Nor to yours either, I've been told."
"Yeah? Let's just say that the district attorney and I have had some professional differences over the years."
"He's no Phil Garrahy, that's for sure," said Reedy sadly.
"Who is?" Karp replied, recording, as he was meant to, that Reedy was one of the select group who had known that Francis Garrahy liked his friends to call him Phil. The elevator door opened. Karp turned and extended his hand. "This is my floor. Nice meeting you, Mr. Reedy."
Reedy returned the handshake warmly and then placed his finger on the door-hold button. Karp paused in the elevator doorway. Reedy said, "I'll tell you what-Butch, is it?-I'd like to buy you lunch. We can talk about the Constitution and other things of mutual interest. How about tomorrow, noon?"
"OK," said Karp after the briefest pause, intrigued by what had turned out to be an odd twist to the morning's doings. And at least Reedy hadn't said "Call my girl."
"Is the Bankers' Club all right?" asked Reedy. Karp was about to make a smart remark, when someone hailed him from the corridor. It was a small fat man of about forty-five, with a sallow homely face, big ears, thinning black curls, and a mouth of prodigious width from which stuck the stump of one of those dense black cigars known in the city as guinea stinkers. He was wearing a red tie and red suspenders that strained to their limit against the hard gut that protruded over his belt line. Numerous reddish stains specked the white acreage between his tie and his suspenders.
"I'll be there," said Karp to Reedy, who smiled again and released the door. To the fat man he said curtly, "What is it, Guma?"
Guma waggled his hand as if it were loose and hanging by a thread from his wrist. "Ooooh! He's got the rag on today! What happened, another tiff with our glorious leader, the scumbag?"
"You got spaghetti sauce on your shirt, Goom," said Karp. The transition from trading quips with Richard Reedy to kanoodling around with Raymond Guma was proving hard for him to handle. Was he just a hair embarrassed about Guma? Was there something mocking in Reedy's farewell smile?
"It's marinara sauce and I wear it like a badge of honor," replied Guma, lifting his chins proudly. "You're marrying a
Karp had to admit it was smoothly done. He met Reedy's eye and saw once again that amused twinkle. What Reedy had said made a certain amount of sense, given the information Karp now possessed. Besides that, he had realized (somewhat to his surprise) that he wanted Reedy to see him as a reasonable man. He nodded and said, "Sure," and so did Manning.
That essentially wound up the meeting, except for some administrative details. Karp left Hrcany to deal with those, and went out to wait for the elevator. As he watched the lights, he felt someone come up behind him. It was Reedy.
"That was quite a performance," Reedy said. "Do you have the whole Constitution by heart, or just the Bill of Rights?"
Karp grinned and replied, "Still working on it. I think you might've been the only guy in that room who got the reference, God help us."
"I'm afraid you're right. Sandy, dear man that he is, is something of a dim bulb in the legal firmament. And he does go on!"
The car arrived and they stepped in. Karp said, "I'm surprised you think so. To hear him talk up there, you're like his closest friend."
Reedy laughed lightly. "Anybody Sandy is with at the moment is his closest friend. He likes to be liked. As for me, I agree with Moliere, 'the friend of all the world is not to my taste.'" He paused. "Nor to yours either, I've been told."
"Yeah? Let's just say that the district attorney and I have had some professional differences over the years."
"He's no Phil Garrahy, that's for sure," said Reedy sadly.
"Who is?" Karp replied, recording, as he was meant to, that Reedy was one of the select group who had known that Francis Garrahy liked his friends to call him Phil. The elevator door opened. Karp turned and extended his hand. "This is my floor. Nice meeting you, Mr. Reedy."
Reedy returned the handshake warmly and then placed his finger on the door-hold button. Karp paused in the elevator doorway. Reedy said, "I'll tell you what-Butch, is it?-I'd like to buy you lunch. We can talk about the Constitution and other things of mutual interest. How about tomorrow, noon?"
"OK," said Karp after the briefest pause, intrigued by what had turned out to be an odd twist to the morning's doings. And at least Reedy hadn't said "Call my girl."
"Is the Bankers' Club all right?" asked Reedy. Karp was about to make a smart remark, when someone hailed him from the corridor. It was a small fat man of about forty-five, with a sallow homely face, big ears, thinning black curls, and a mouth of prodigious width from which stuck the stump of one of those dense black cigars known in the city as guinea stinkers. He was wearing a red tie and red suspenders that strained to their limit against the hard gut that protruded over his belt line. Numerous reddish stains specked the white acreage between his tie and his suspenders.
"I'll be there," said Karp to Reedy, who smiled again and released the door. To the fat man he said curtly, "What is it, Guma?"
Guma waggled his hand as if it were loose and hanging by a thread from his wrist. "Ooooh! He's got the rag on today! What happened, another tiff with our glorious leader, the scumbag?"
"You got spaghetti sauce on your shirt, Goom," said Karp. The transition from trading quips with Richard Reedy to kanoodling around with Raymond Guma was proving hard for him to handle. Was he just a hair embarrassed about Guma? Was there something mocking in Reedy's farewell smile?
"It's marinara sauce and I wear it like a badge of honor," replied Guma, lifting his chins proudly. "You're marrying a
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